by money, had turned the dull discontent of her youth into an active fever of desire.  She had no illusions about herself at all.  She was already a plain and unattractive old maid.  Nobody would want to marry her; and she did not want to marry anybody.  But she wanted to do things and to see things, when the hateful war was over.  She was full of curiosities about life and the world, that were rather masculine than feminine.  Her education, though it was still patchy and shallow, had been advancing since Nelly’s marriage, and her intelligence was hungry.  The satisfaction of it seemed too to promise her the only real pleasures to which she could look forward in life.  On the wall of her bedroom were hanging photographs of Rome, Athens, the East.  She dreamt of a wandering existence; she felt that she would be insatiable of movement, of experience, if the chance were given her.

But how could one travel, or buy books, or make new acquaintances, without money?—­something more at any rate than the pittance on which she and Nelly subsisted.

What was it Sir William was supposed to have, by way of income?—­thirty thousand a year?  Well, he wouldn’t always be spending it on his hospital, and War income tax, and all the other horrible burdens of the time.  If Nelly married him, she would have an ample margin to play with; and to do Nelly justice, she was always open-handed, always ready to give away.  She would hand over her own small portion to her sister, and add something to it.  With six or seven hundred a year, Bridget would be mistress of her own fate, and of the future.  Often, lately, in waking moments of the night, she had felt a sudden glow of exultation, thinking what she could do with such a sum.  The world seemed to open out on all sides—­offering her new excitements, new paths to tread in.  She wanted no companion, to hamper her with differing tastes and wishes.  She would be quite sufficient to herself.

The garden outside grew dark.  She heard Farrell say ’It’s too cold for you—­you must come in,’ and she watched Nelly enter the house in front of him—­turning her head back to answer something he said to her.  Even through the dusk Bridget was conscious of her sister’s beauty.  She did not envy it in the least.  It was Nelly’s capital—­Nelly’s opportunity.  Let her use it for them both.  Bridget would be well satisfied to gather up the crumbs from her rich sister’s table.

Then from the dream, she came back with chill and desperation—­to reality.  The letter in her pocket—­the journey before her—­she pondered alternatives.  What was she to do in this case—­or in that?  Everything might be at stake—­everything was at stake—­her life and Nelly’s—­

The voices from the parlour below came up to her.  She heard the crackling of a newly lighted fire—­Farrell reading aloud—­and Nelly’s gentle laughter.  She pictured the scene; the two on either side of the fire, with Nelly’s mourning, her plain widow’s dress, as the symbol—­in Nelly’s eyes—­of what divided her from Farrell, or any other suitor, and made it possible to be his friend without fear.  Bridget knew that Nelly so regarded it.  But that of course was just Nelly’s foolish way of looking at things.  It was only a question of time.